Reuben Unmasked
by paulbc
Summary: A premise story for a Partridge Family reboot with a Quantum Leap feel (but no crossover). I watched The Partridge Family as a kid when it was new, and later in reruns. I also have a lifelong fascination with the sleep mask worn by Reuben in the series pilot. Apologies in advance if I've violated canon or run roughshod over characterizations. It's been a while.


**The Tour**

We had no right to blame poor old Reuben. He warned us our act might not travel as well as we hoped. We were the ones who were so certain. His doubt came through in that uncanny way his thoughts always came to me. Don't ask me how. At ten years old, I already knew the buttons to push to get what I wanted from him. By eighteen, my family considered this my job. "Danny," they demanded, "You convince him." So I did, and here we were.

Reuben Kincaid is a consummate professional. Nobody else could have got us the booking in the first place. Seriously, the logistics alone would have defeated most managers. But right now we just wanted out of this idiotic European tour. It was the late 70s and our star was fading. Our finances were iffy, and we weren't drawing the old crowds. Maybe we could have switched to nostalgia shows, dinner theater. God, who knows what? Bus tours, heh. But the lure of a new place, a new start. We had to keep moving on, spread a little loving, right? Even if we had to cross an ocean to do it.

Do you have any idea how much it costs to ship a bus from New York to London? We were going to recoup it pretty fast, that is, if the first show hadn't bombed so bad. Chalk it up to bad promotion, but I'm not sure it ever could have worked. We were supposed to move on to Paris, Amsterdam, West Berlin—I forget where else. Reuben said he had the paperwork in to play Warsaw, and even Prague. Imagine that! The Partridge Family behind the Iron Curtain. I think they would have loved us in Poland, compared to these jaded Western Europeans. It would have been a hell of a comeback story and we could leverage the publicity back home.

Well, we didn't exactly get bad reviews in London. Nobody bothered to review the show at all, just a few column inches trying to puzzle out what we were doing there. A "concept show centered around a painted bus." Or "fake Mondrian." They were really obsessed with the bus. It's not like it was on stage or anything. We parked it outside. It's how we get around and yeah, we got creative with the paint job. We were assumed to be a parody band, a novelty band, or just dismissed as bubblegum. That one hurt. But our family has show business in its blood. The show must go on—even with a bad case of stomach flu hitting the whole band on the second night. The crowd was smaller this time, and we were hurting. That was it. Time to forget Paris, forget the whole tour and just cut our losses.

We were set to return when we got a mysterious offer to play Kabul, Afghanistan. The backer seemed legit, though we didn't know anything about him. Some rich guy with a big vision. He was going to put on a festival to bring together what he said was his "favorite music." His tastes were eclectic—some psychedelic, some modern jazz, some folk rock, and us. It wouldn't have paid as much as the original tour, but he offered to reimburse all living expenses and travel costs. The gig would have turned a profit and left us with enough to get back home. Anyway, it beat dinner theater.

Back then, you could drive the so-called hippie trail to the "mystic east" on a bus. By convention a VW, but there was no law against driving a big honking fake Mondrian (a Chevy in fact). Mom figured we'd fit right in. And just seeing Reuben's look of relief, that was all it took. Get that bus on the next channel ferry. We're driving to Kabul!

**Kabul or Bust**

What is there to say about the Partridge Family's big European adventure? Truth is, we had a blast. It was our first time in Europe, and even if we weren't doing gigs, we saw some of the same sights we had planned. More in fact, because we had the time. People were friendly and we got a lot of comments about the bus. Sometimes we wondered if it was a mistake to cancel the tour, but it was probably just as well. The locals liked us, and we'd play for them sometimes, but I don't know if we could have filled a concert hall. They were curious. They never saw an American family travel like us. Some asked if we were missionaries. Well, maybe we were in a way.

It was cool. The hippies we met told us they "dug our scene." We had room for hitchhikers on the bus. After a while, it got too crazy and we had a deadline. The roads got rougher, the people less versed in English, and we were all exhausted. Mom and Reuben had a private conference and set some ground rules. It wasn't a pleasure tour. It was now the Kabul express. Stops for bathroom breaks only, and 8 hours at night to sleep. I was old enough to do some of the driving but mostly it was Laurie and Keith who split it with Mom. I don't even know the countries we went through, it all went by so fast.

As a family, we're not big on news or politics, let alone international politics. I had a sense that the Shah was not a nice guy, but that was all I knew about Iran—that they had a Shah, which is like some kind of king, and a lot of people didn't like him. Then there was Russia. A place with a cold city called Moscow, where they sent prisoners to an even colder place called Siberia. If we were going to run into any problems in Afghanistan (a desert, right?), it definitely wouldn't have anything to do with the snowy, northern Soviet Union.

The invasion of Afghanistan wouldn't happen for another year, but there was a lot of tension in the region, and Iran was looking worrisome. Nobody told us we would be one of the last buses on the hippie trail and that it might be very difficult to return.

For all that, the real problem was Reuben. He wasn't himself. I had grown up knowing all his quirks. He could be funny, kind, and irascible by turns. But this was a different man entirely. For the first time, I couldn't read him.

He kept telling us he'd been here before. Well, he had never been here before. None of us had. When pressed, he'd agree, but he seemed to recognize things. He could predict turns in the winding mountain roads. That, he said, is what scared him most. He mumbled in his sleep. When awake, sometimes he would just stare straight ahead. We would try to distract him by asking about our gig. All he'd say was, "You guys have been doing it how long? You're the experts." I was under a lot of pressure from everyone, and by everyone I mean Tracy and Chris too. They wanted me to "talk to him" like I was still that precocious brat who thought he was Reuben's best buddy. No luck. I couldn't get through to him either.

One night he was his old self again. We were just a few days out of Kabul, expecting to arrive well ahead of time. We went over the schedule together. It was perfect, right down to detailed contingency plans. Good old Reuben had come through again! How had we ever doubted him? We turned in for the night and slept better than we had in days.

When we woke up at dawn, there was no sign of him. There was a note, if you could call it one.

"All done. Going back now. Break a leg! —Reuben Kincaid"

We panicked. We hounded the local authorities, such as they were. It was useless.

"Your friend, the hippie? Yes, we lose many hippies here."

"No! Our manager. He's a lot of things, but definitely not a hippie. And we think he's done something drastic. We don't know what."

We stayed around a day, then another day, but there was nothing to do about it. The show must go on. Maybe he really had gone back home, but we couldn't see how. It was easier to be angry at him. The jerk abandoned us in the middle of nowhere, and just got a flight back home. That was the whole story. It must be. We were two days behind. With the slightest hitch, we'd miss our booking and it'd be a complete bust.

On the bus, I thought about Reuben. It was impossible he had left like that. Something must be wrong. I remember when we first heard about Kabul. I went right up to him.

"Oh man, Reuben. Black Afghan hash, opium..."

"Danny." he snapped. "Where'd you even hear something like that? I can guess. But look. You're a smart kid… not really a kid anymore. You're a talented bassist. You could do anything you want. You could do my job. Hell, better than I do. Just… I dunno. Use your judgment, use your brain, OK?"

Why did I say it? Did I just want to get his goat? His concern seemed out of character, but somehow it was exactly what I expected. It was what I needed to hear. That was Reuben, always looking after me. He'd try to hide it, but with everything that happened in London, I needed to draw it out. No way would he just ditch us. Something was wrong.

**The Concert**

We pushed on to Kabul. The rest of the trip was uneventful and we got there on time. But where was the festival? Reuben wasn't there to help us, so we did our best. Amazingly, we found our backer by chance at a café. He had flown in before we got there. At this point, we didn't know whether to trust him, but he acted like everything was normal, only one thing. "Where's your manager, Mr. Kincaid?"

We told him the details. His brow furrowed, but he didn't ask any questions. "Well, you see, unfortunately you're the only band who made it here. Some late cancellations. Some concern about the Iranian revolution. Skittish, you know. It'll blow over. We'll do a festival next year."

Our disappointment was palpable. "But don't worry." he reassured us, "We have our deal. In fact, I'll sweeten the pot with some hazard pay. Your equipment is ready?" We nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, you need time to rehearse." He was right about that. We had been driving straight for days. We had gone way too long without playing. "Tomorrow night. The grounds are reserved. Now we just need an audience."

Well, this wasn't what we were expecting, but after coming all this way, what could we do? We performed the next night. It was a free concert that drew locals and tourists alike. It wasn't a huge crowd, but it was the kind of crowd you cannot bear to disappoint. Words don't do it justice. We played our best set in years. Mom, Keith, and Laurie up there just like old times. Chris and Tracy, grown up and spreading their wings. Tracy had become a versatile musician over the years, but her tambourine was still the keystone of the arch we built to our audience. I forgot everything, London, the trip, how far we were from home, and just threw myself into the music.

Something really does happen when we're together, and it was happening here. If only Reuben had been with us. Where was he?

If you go back in old papers, you can find a few stories about our promoter and how he was going to put on a festival in Kabul. It wasn't a question of finance. He was as rich as he claimed to be. But his timing was terrible. No one could predict that this part of the world was about to close off to the West, but it was already losing the tourists. I still don't get his angle. Probably just like he said. He wanted to put on his favorite music. Why in such a far off place, I will never know.

Nobody even remembers that the Partridge Family showed up and played. Years later, I combed microfilms for any record at all. There is an article in a German paper about an American family off on its odd bus adventure. Nobody who read that one knew who we were. Our American fans did not know where we had disappeared, just that the European tour was off. It had happened so fast, we never got the publicity out. I think Reuben wanted to keep the comeback a surprise, maybe rebrand us as something more mystical, enlightened. It's not such a stupid idea, but we were a little late to the game for that kind of thing.

The day after the concert, we were paid. The bulk of it was a wire transfer between US banks that we confirmed with a phone call. This guy was for real!

No, the problem wasn't money. Or rather, the problem was the money. The payment was so much that Mom first refused to accept it for one show. Our backer insisted.

"Not at all, not at all, for a splendid performance like that. Think of it as a down payment on next year. We'll have the real festival then. People will come from all over the world. Borders are opening up everywhere. You'll see."

It didn't take much persuasion for someone as down-to-earth as Mom. He gave us more cash for our return and made some suggestions for getting the bus back home.

"And now, that hazard pay I promised." He made into a little ceremony, awarding each of us, Mom, Keith, Laurie, Chris, Tracy, and myself a medal for "sticktoitiveness" as he put it. It looked like these had been adapted from unused festival badges, but it was a touching gesture. Each medal came with a neat stack of $100 bills. Our jaws went slack.

"And for your manager." He handed us a sealed envelope addressed to Reuben. "I'll get back to you about the festival next year, or to Mr. Kincaid if he's so disposed." He abruptly left.

Once he was gone, Mom practically burst into tears at our good fortune. I had never seen her like this. Then, shifting gears, she went steely. "This isn't the kind of thing we can count on. I want you to understand that. And I've been thinking for a long time about what we should do next."

She cleared her throat.

"Danny, it's high time you were in college. Keith, Laurie, I can't tell you what to do anymore, but you need to think about your future too. If it's music, that could work out. It doesn't have to be. We can be stateside by late September if we move fast. Chris and Tracy need to be in school. A real, permanent district, not doing correspondence work on the bus.

"Kids, I know you've made it this far in a show business family, but… well we've been given a kind of golden parachute. We can use it to glide to safety. As you may know, I've been working on a real estate license."

"Real estate?" gasped Keith and Laurie in unison.

"But the festival..." began Tracy.

"... next year." Chris finished.

"We'll see." said Mom. "I'm not so sure. Maybe we can still do a show like that if other things work out."

"Last night…" I started to protest.

"Last night was magic," agreed Mom, "but magic isn't a strategy. That was a gift, and we must use the gift wisely. Who knows? If our… our patron comes through it could happen again next year. It could even be better. But right now, we need to plan. We need to pool all our proceeds."

That's when she started reaching for the cash.

"Now wait a minute! This isn't 'proceeds.' This bonus is mine. Same with everyone else. How dare you!"

"No Danny, that's not how the contract works. Reuben could explain better than I can. Oh, Reuben... how could he just skip out like that and leave us here in, in this place? I mean, I hope he's OK, but..."

At that moment it was all over for me. Now college wasn't such a bad idea. I thought I might want to go to some day, but real estate? I pretended to drop the matter. The discussion went on with the others, but Mom had made up her mind, and so had I.

**Departure**

That night after everyone was asleep, I collected all the hundreds. As a severance package, it seemed only fair. I gave the bills a closer look. They were real enough. Benjamin Franklin in fur, series 1969 C. Why so old? Never mind. Money's money, and this was a lot of it.

I took Reuben's envelope too. Who knows? Maybe I'd run into him. He could have it if he showed up soon enough. If not, I might need what's inside. Yeah, I was a real jerk about it. I packed my bass and a change of clothes too.

I left a longer note than Reuben did. I explained I was going to continue along the "trail." I was as old as some of the other seekers, so why not? I tried not to sound bitter. I didn't mention the missing money. They'd figure that one out. I ended on a cheery note "See you next year at the festival. —D." I was pissed, but I didn't want them to worry about me. To be honest, I didn't want them to spend too long looking for me at all.

How had I made such a rash decision? For one thing, I had a standing offer from some of the passengers we took on board. A few showed up in Kabul and even watched our rehearsal. They were taking care of themselves. So could I with a little help. And there were girls… women really. They were older than me for the most part, but not by much. My whole life had been spent on the road with my family. There was nothing wrong with that. It was just time for something new.

My companions were headed to Kathmandu, so I went along. The money would help, and I was careful not to mention how much I was carrying. I'll never know how much grief I caused my family. I was already on the road before they knew where to look.

Years later, I did some checking. The easiest to find out about were Laurie and Keith. They kept performing and made a name for themselves. There was even talk of a TV deal. Crazy talk if you ask me. I never watched much, but even I can tell you a brother-sister musical duo wasn't going to work as a variety show.

News of Mom came by pure chance. A tourist left me an old Phoenix newspaper. When I opened it, there was a half page ad: Shirley Partridge, Realtor. Her business grew as fast as the Phoenix sprawl itself all through the 80s, and she made more than we ever did with the act. Chris and Tracy were also doing fine in their careers. They gave occasional interviews.

Everyone figured I was dead. Rumors of an OD. Some said I had joined a cult, or was kidnapped like Patty Hearst. Most Partridge retrospectives didn't mention me at all. Not a word about Reuben, either. Like he dropped off the face of the earth.

Need I add that next year's festival never happened? Soviet tanks are the ultimate buzz kill. By then I was well out of harm's way. With my groovy new friends, I had passed through Peshawar, Lahore, and Delhi on the way to Kathmandu. That's where I settled.

**Daniel Partridge, Esq.**  
There I was, an enterprising young man in Nepal, endowed with substantial seed capital. Substantial is a relative term. I knew some trust fund kids who could blow through that much in a month. They were my best customers. Was it legal? Let's just say I didn't hurt anyone. It was still about spreading love, and the love went both ways.

The expats I served were like a new family to me. I learned so much about music from them, it was humbling. I had been in the biz since I could walk, or so I thought. How had I missed everything that was going on? True, a lot of it happened before we Partridges really took off as a band. I was a focused kid practicing chords and arpeggios on my bass. I was good! But nobody had taught me how to listen.

Now don't get me wrong. "Come on get happy" is a strong statement. It's direct. It's unadorned. It's what we stood for as a family. But hearing Roger McGuinn's Rickenbacker for the first time—on an 8-track tape—in 1979!—that was happiness distilled to its purest form. We Partridges were great musicians, why couldn't we do that? Why couldn't we have at least tried?

I wondered why I even brought the bass along with me. I thought about selling it. Finally, I gave it away, the only truly generous act of my life thus far. I found a worthy possessor, someone who put my sterile, technical approach to shame. I never looked back, and I hope he got as much joy out of it as his eyes told me he would.

As my business expanded. Reuben's envelope stayed untouched. By this point I didn't need it, and I still hoped I would find him.

Life was good. Sometimes it would drag, and sometimes it would get crazy. My biggest day ever was when Meadow came by in the afternoon, knocking loud enough to wake the dead. Well, it worked I this time I guess. I came to the door.

"Hey Meds. I'm trying to sleep. You know my business hours."

"Daniel." she began (nobody called me "Danny" anymore). "We all like you, but we're concerned." (Huh? About what?)

"Nothing to worry about." I countered. "My inventory's good. My cash flow's impeccable. When I have let you down?"

"That's not what I mean. You're out of balance. Like a juggler. On a seesaw. We've all noticed. We can't let you do this to yourself."

Do what? I had no idea what she was getting at. I was about to shut the door and go back to sleep.

"Daniel, I can help you." (I needed help?) "Jasper taught me this meditation…"

I had never met Jasper—he was gone before I got here—but he was a legend. I realized I couldn't brush off Meadow without insulting the whole community.

"Uh, some mantra you mean? You know I'm not into that."

"It's not Nepali. It's not even Buddhist. It's something Jasper learned from indigenous people."

"Indigenous to where?"

"Jasper traveled a lot." (Yeah, so I've been told. Repeatedly.) "He never told me where. He was pretty divided about telling me about it at all. It's what he called…" She looked down coyly. "...the stolen wisdom. He felt bad because he had never completed the discipline, like he was just another western exploiter."

I dug Meadow, but this was getting too much for me.

She continued. "Anyway, he said he couldn't honestly keep it to himself either. It was too important. So we are just very careful who we tell. It doesn't work for everyone. I know it'll work for you. You have the right resonance. I saw it a long time ago, but I wasn't sure I could trust you."

"All right, Meadow. You want to teach me this stolen wisdom? My whole afternoon's free now."

"You need darkness to start."

"No problem." I said, brandishing the sleep mask I had just been wearing. "I brought the darkness with me."

I had never seen such a look of panic on her face. "No. No. No! It begins in darkness. It ends in light. If you use a mask, you can't control the darkness. You could travel far away before you came out of it."

"Like, a different mental state?"

"No, some other place in the world. A different time even. You know that book where the guy is unstuck in time?"

"Vonnegut." I filled in. "You don't want me turning into Billy Pilgrim? Fair enough."

"Daniel, I'm not joking. You must never use the mask with this. Oh, I was right all along. I can't trust you."

"Look Meadow, I believe you. You care about me. That's cool. If you want to teach me some kind of indigenous trance state, I'm all over it. In fact, it's probably just what I need to get my life back in balance. Just like you said."

Her eyes lit up. "I'll be back tonight. You'll see!" She hugged me and darted away.

I didn't believe any of this, but it felt good to participate in the whole scene instead of being some lame outsider. Over the months that followed, Meadow taught me the meditation. It did seem to restore balance. I never understood how. I was very careful about the dark and the light parts. Needless to say, I didn't use the sleep mask. The thought of her panic was enough to stop me.

**Return**

Years went by. I had entered a scene that was past its prime, and by the late 80s, it was starting to look like it was on the way out entirely. I had kept a low profile, avoided causing any trouble, but if I had been asked what I was doing there, I would have been hard pressed to answer. And increasingly, expats like me were asked just that. They were getting tired of us. No surprise. I was getting tired of me too. Jasper's meditation helped but I still had to live. I had a quite a nest egg, but no documentation to speak of. How would I even get back to the US? Over time, my friends here moved away. The locals were kind and we got along, but I never broke through the cultural barrier.

Sometimes I wished I could get back on the bus and be Danny Partridge again. I used to dream I was performing with my family. They were amazing shows, pulling in elements we never knew about back then. Reuben would be there telling us how he always knew we'd be a hit, but had never imagined what artists we'd become. I'd feel a sense of well-being I never had in my waking state. Then I'd wake up, asking myself the same question as everybody else: What the hell was I doing here?

I was homesick. It was time to move back. I had the means, the connections. I would buy myself a new identity. What I couldn't do was face my own family. I was relieved things had worked out so well for them, but I had still let them down. Time to go our separate ways.

My new life would begin as Raymond Kilkenny.

Yeah, I know. Seriously, I came close to stealing Reuben's actual name, but I thought it might attract too much attention. I also hoped if he was out there, something would click and he might look me up. Either way, I was about to go into his business. It's one I had been preparing for my whole life without realizing it.

I never thought I'd surpass Reuben, but there was some truth to his suggestion. I had been a decent bass player. For a kid. As outfitter to mystic seekers, I showed a real gift. But I knew that music agent was the job I was born to do. The fact that I had missed at least a decade of trends was not a hindrance. It gave me professional distance. Past 30 myself, I came across as solidly middle age and not a competitor, not artistically and definitely not romantically.

I settled in LA. It is not the hippest locale, but it's one where I was in my element. I had lacked the foresight to steal Reuben's rolodex in a literal sense, but I knew his old haunts. Some of his contacts were still active in the business and it was a small matter to start with them and build up a network. As I scoped out potential clients, I was surprised to see how many were coming down from Seattle. I had no interest in moving to that rainy city, but there was no need to. Professional distance. I took care of the business. The kids—my clients I mean—took care of the music.

I made up a business card: "Raymond Kilkenny, Your Humble Servant" along with the usual contact information. My clients got a chuckle out of that, thinking it ironic. They were mistaken. It was a statement of my job and my work ethic. It came to me after a Jasper meditation one day and I was certain it fit. The card was emblazoned with a single four leaf clover. It fit my name and my red hair, now streaked with just enough gray. Nobody seemed to realize I had cribbed it off an Alfa Romeo I saw parked on the street. It just meant "good luck."

This is where I'd tell you all the great bands I brought to the fore, but I'd be lying; my success was steady and moderate. I did very well. The 90s have been good to me. I've grown my business and met a lot of fascinating people, not always my cup of tea musically. Doesn't matter. The changes in technology leave me cold, but I've kept up to date—email, website, whatever I need. Just don't ask me how any of it works.

All those years, I kept looking for Reuben, but nobody knew where he had gone. As I dug deeper, I realized nobody even knew where he had come from. It was as if he had appeared out of the blue. I met a guy from way back who told me he really had just shown up one day fully grown, if I could believe him. He claimed he had personally helped Reuben get into the business.

"He was already a few years older than you are when I met him. To be honest, I thought he was a bum at first."

I couldn't picture that. Reuben might be a little rumpled, but he was always at the top of his game. And a total workaholic. But the man continued:

"Confused, an amnesia case right out of a daytime soap opera. He was sure his name was Reuben Kincaid—kind of name that sticks in your head—and that he was a music agent. That was the strangest part. He claimed he had some papers to prove it. Guy wakes up on Wilshire near the La Brea tar pits. Slept through the whole afternoon on a bench with a mask over his eyes. All he knows about himself is from a letter in his pocket and a sealed envelope with his name on it."

"Really? What do you think happened?"

"A lot of the kids were dropping acid back then. He seemed old for that, but who knows? Oh right, he always explained how he found a fountain pen with him. That was his other 'proof.' Quaint even then, but it was a nice pen, monogrammed 'RK.' Must have been somebody's."

"Heh, I have one just like that!" I showed him. It was part of my whole image and my clients seemed to get a kick out of it when we did the signing.

"Fountain pen? Clumsy things. I don't miss 'em. So he's sure he's Reuben Kincaid, sure he's a music agent. No office, no card—well one that was unreadable. Must have gone through the wash. Big green splotch and a name that could have been anything. Didn't mean a damn thing. He couldn't tell me who he represented. He had funny ideas, talked about computers... ahead of his time on that one, heh. He had a wad of cash, though. All new bills. Never saw anything like it. 1969 was a good year for music, needless to say, and I had some leads. Not my best clients, but more than I could handle."

"You sent some his way."

"He showed a real knack for the business. Made me think his story could be true, but I never heard of any Reuben Kincaid before. Nobody did. He had like a sixth sense about what would be popular. Showed a lot of promise. It was like he had seen it all happen before. Best natural music agent I ever met."

"Wow! Did you regret unleashing competition like that?" I blurted out.

"To be honest, I might have, but he only did it for about a year. Then he got started with some family singers—a real bubblegum band if you ask me. He stuck with them as manager after that as far as I know. Must've been lucrative. Can't figure out what else it would be."

I cleared my throat. A little too loud I'm afraid. Anyway, I'd heard enough by now, and it got me thinking. There was something unnerving about that story, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

It was the best lead I ever had, but it never really went anywhere. A few people backed up the basic outline, though it was more of a running joke. The amnesia thing. Who would believe that? Probably just needed to make a clean break and made up the whole thing. I know the feeling. Good old Reuben.

Well, a decade of searching is enough. Time to stop looking back. Time to look forward, and what a time for it. Y2K, right? All the computers are supposed to crash and send us back to the stone age. No way, it's gonna rock. World peace in 2000 and beyond. I can feel it. Time to celebrate, time to start the next chapter.

But first, I have a few loose ends to tie up. One is a letter to Reuben. Maybe he'll never get it, but I have to write it. I still have his bonus envelope, and carry it around as if I might run into him any day. What do I do with that?

The "stolen wisdom" has been on my mind too, Jasper's meditation. Call me selfish or call me protective, but I never taught it to anyone. I'm convinced it offers more than the balance it's given me, a lot more, but I need to take it further. Meadow would strangle me if I told her, but I need more darkness for the Jasper meditation. I'm going to try it with the sleep mask.

**Awakening**

All I knew was my back hurt like hell and I couldn't see a thing. Panicked, I reached for my eyes. What? Some kind of cloth. A mask. Then... blinding light! I was staring straight up at the sun.

Logical. If you're going to sleep on a bench in mid-afternoon, a mask helps a lot. That explained my back pain too. I was going gangbusters with brilliant deductions, but some nagging questions remained. For one, where was I?

More to the point, who was I? Not a vampire anyway, since I'd made it through that park siesta with just a mild sunburn.

I took a walk to let my eyes adjust. Nice place for a stroll. Manicured lawns and hedges. A bit sterile, but pleasant. I saw black tar seeping out in unexpected spots, and remembered I'd been here as a kid. They have that museum with the saber tooths and dire wolves, all trapped in an ancient tar pit. La Brea.

Something was wrong. The cars going by, "Classics" I thought, but all new and waxed to a shine. Too many for an auto show. "This isn't my year." Uh, that made no sense. I caught a glimpse of a newspaper box. LA Times. Headlines about the war in Vietnam, some zoning issue, an unsolved murder, and a dateline with the year 1969.

Who was I to believe, the crazy man who just woke up on a park bench—that is to say, me—or Southern California's flagship news source? Not even a contest. Apparently it was 1969 and my addled mind had concocted a future in some half remembered dream.

It's not all amnesiacs who wake up with a letter revealing who they are. But there it was, from some guy named Danny. I didn't follow his whole story, but it had something to do with music and making people happy. I was one of the good guys, to my great relief.

He owed me money, which he'd returned in an envelope filled with crisp hundred dollar bills and some sort of plastic badge. Right. Just give me a mission and the means to carry it out. Mine was music, and I had best get cracking.

One day I might put all the pieces together, but for now I knew all I needed: This is my year, and I am Reuben Kincaid.


End file.
